


But you held your course to some distant war

by SLWalker



Series: Witness me [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Cooking Lessons, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Hard questions and hard answers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Imprisonment, Lightsaber lessons, M/M, Miscarriage, Obi-Wan does NOT fail Parenting 101, PTSD, Scenes between stories, acknowledging past mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11180217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: Snippets and scenes that mostly fit into the space between Adding shadows and Staring into open flame, with a few more later ones.





	1. Adrift (25 BBY)

**Author's Note:**

> So, there's plenty of ground to cover that won't likely make it into one of the big stories, but still should be told. That's what you'll find here. If you want to see anything, you're always welcome to send me prompts @sl-walker on Tumblr, or comment them here. <3

The view of the stars slid across as they drifted, waiting for the updated research to be transmitted from the Temple so that they could jump back into hyperspace, aiming for their destination.  In the cramped quarters of the ship, there was no real room to stretch and even meditating would require sitting either in the middle of the cockpit or blocking the hallway.

They talked, instead.

The conversation also drifted, Obi-Wan doing most of the talking, but not all of it.  He told stories of his (almost) misspent youth, usually leaning towards funny stories so he might be granted a smile.  Occasionally he gave into the wistfulness of nostalgia; he was only thirty-two, but sometimes he felt so much older.

He wasn’t sure how it happened – Maul was quiet at the best of times – but after he had told another story of how much trouble he almost got into by falling in love with Satine, he found himself listening to the tale of Kilindi Matako.

He remembered the name from Iloh, even though he had been drunk at the time.

He remembered his gratitude for her existence.

Maul wove the story together with a grace which mirrored his physical prowess, his low and quiet voice turning it into something almost like poetry.  He didn’t always know the words he wanted, and sometimes he had to pause to work out how to explain the next part, but Obi-Wan listened raptly, and Maul painted the picture of this girl so well that for a moment, Obi-Wan could forget that she dies at the end of the story.

It was a tale which covered eight years, of a former slave girl who reached out to offer friendship to someone who had already been tormented into believing such things would only lead to suffering; at first a tale of that friendship, partnership, and then later a tale that would have likely become romance had it not been so brutally ended.

“I killed her,” Maul said at the end, looking off into some unknowable distance with brow furrowed. “She was the last left alive.  I never even hesitated.”

His voice was level, but there was a note of aching bewilderment in it, as if he could not fathom why he would ever do such a thing; it was so quietly plaintive that it squeezed at the base of Obi-Wan’s throat and made his eyes sting on empathy alone.

“She tried to smile at me, at the end,” Maul said, and apparently that was all the more he could take, because after a long moment of looking off, he stood and vanished into the equally small rear compartment of the ship.

It was not exactly fast enough to constitute  _flight,_  but more than enough to indicate how much it had cost him to tell the story.

Obi-Wan debated with himself, rubbing the tears out of his own eyes calmly, then followed and spent the next two hours wrapped around Maul, tucked into the too-small space, first waiting out the tension and then waiting out the trembling, long after the Temple sent the new data packet that should have sent them on their way.


	2. Sprawl (23 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of the many times where Maul has been either mattress, space heater or both.

He woke up with a Jedi on his back.

Suspended in some state between clean awareness and heavy sleep, Maul reflected on this fact.  It was something worthy of reflection, because really, nine or more years ago this would have quickly become a blood bath.  Three or more years ago, it would have at least provoked some sort of reaction, which would have resulted in Maul removing the man from about his person, not necessarily politely.

He would not be laying there wondering how Obi-Wan Kenobi ended up sprawled on him like he was some half-biological body pillow.

He had no idea what time it was, only that it wasn’t yet daylight.  They were two days into what looked to be a relatively long-term diplomatic mission, and Maul was still wondering how Obi-Wan had managed to convince the Council that he would be useful on it.  He thought he had caught some sheepish muttering about potential assassination attempts, dangerous animals and extra security measures, but mostly Maul thought that Obi-Wan had bent the truth to its very limits because he  _wanted_  to.

Completely despite himself (and whatever he had left that passed for dignity), he felt the urge to grin in some wry fashion.

He tried to pick his head up without disturbing the man on his back so he could see what time it was, but he couldn’t crane his neck enough to manage.  Then he tried to wiggle carefully out from under Obi-Wan’s weight, and that also failed; Obi-Wan was lean, but he was solid.

Finally, Maul managed to get his left arm out from under himself, where he’d tucked it under his chest, and reached back blindly to scritch at Obi-Wan’s head, pillowed on the back of a shoulder.  "Wake up.“

There was a brief hitch in breathing, but then it went right back to even.  Maul sighed and tried again.  "Kenobi,  _wake up_.”

“Nnn,” was the eloquent reply this time.  Obi-Wan then had the nerve to grind his bearded cheek against Maul’s shoulder blade before settling again, probably not realizing in his sleep how abrasive that actually was.

Maul supposed he could just throw Obi-Wan off.  There were a dozen different ways to do it, he was sure, though for some reason none of them were coming to mind right now; at least not any that wouldn’t result in a rude awakening and perhaps a surly Jedi.

He managed to catch a few strands of Obi-Wan’s hair between his fingers and give them a tug, though not hard.  _“Obi-Wan–”_

“Mmn.  No, you’re warm,” was the sleep-blurred reply, and then Obi-Wan not only  _didn’t_  get off of Maul, but he worked his arm  _under_  his unwitting body pillow and held on in an undeniably clingy manner. “Stay here.”

Then he went right back to sleep.  If he had ever been truly awake in the first place.

Maul huffed quietly, then used the arm he had freed from this pile of a body and a half to gesture, using the Force to pull the blanket back up over them both, giving up any expectation of getting out of bed within the next hour or two.

At least Obi-Wan wasn’t awake to catch him smiling over it.


	3. Contentment (23 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the same mission as referenced in Sprawl (and also referenced in Staring into open flame), Obi-Wan finds an uncomplicated happiness.

Negotiations were tricky.

Despite that, Obi-Wan had been– bending the facts considerably when he had said they were potentially dangerous; there  _had_  been threats made on both government and company leaders, but those threats had been almost entirely posturing and most of them were nonviolent to begin with.  He had also been bending the facts considerably when he said that the relatively low-tech world might have dangerous animals and inhome sensors weren’t commonplace.  There  _were_  dangerous animals, but they largely avoided the imported population of a mish-mash of species.

Mostly, he had counted on the fact that the Council had a great deal on their collective plates right now and that this had become commonplace enough to be unremarkable.  He barely had to present an argument to get Maul out of the Temple this time, though Anakin had been less than pleased, both for Obi-Wan’s company and for the fact that Anakin had classes to finish and had to stay behind.  Obi-Wan had actually enjoyed his archive-keeping classes – some of the last classes he had needed to qualify for knighthood – but to Anakin, it likely seemed quite slow and dull.

Obi-Wan, however, had found a whole new appreciation for slow and dull.

Now, he sat on the couch with his socked feet up on the tea table, the fire in the fireplace warming the soles of them, and worked on how to negotiate an agreement between business and government as to the welfare of this colony world.

It was a beautiful place.  He could understand the desire to defend its natural beauty, and he could likewise understand the necessity of having a healthy, growing economy.  It was a fine line to walk; it was no wonder they wanted a Jedi to help hash it all out.

Maul didn’t care much for negotiations, treaties or otherwise, but he obligingly listened to Obi-Wan reading off relevant passages to the different proposals and occasionally gave a considered response that was almost on the whole pragmatic.  Obi-Wan secretly thought Maul was as taken by the place as he was himself; most of those suggestions sided with the environmentalists.

Their days were full, but not rushed; meetings didn’t start until late morning and ended only four or five hours later, in large part to keep tempers in check and minds fresh.  Within a week, Obi-Wan and Maul had settled into a comfortable routine; within two, this cabin built into rimrock and forest had become very home-like, at least to Obi-Wan.  They had to walk down a well-worn path to get to the speeder, had to drive a half-hour to get to the conference center, and there were no easy amenities in reach like there was on Coruscant, but the peace and solitude more than made up for it.

When they weren’t negotiating (and body-guarding from supposed threats and dangerous animals), there were open-air markets selling autumn produce, game trails to wander and explore and a porch out front to sit on, before the sharp chill of evening made the thought of a fireplace sound good.

“This one proposes a fund based on business tax to provide environmental restoration post-mining,” he said, skimming over the information on the datapad.  Some of the businesses here were local, but some were interstellar and Obi-Wan often found that those from farther away were less apt to protect the people and the world itself.  "Not an altogether bad idea, but given what the scientists say, the loss of bio-diversity in proposals like this often make them more lip-service than useful.  And I think even then, the costs wouldn’t cover it.  Should I bother with a recommendation for a counter-proposal?“

Maul didn’t answer him; when Obi-Wan looked over to find out why, Maul was asleep with his head back against the couch, arms still crossed.  He had gone out wandering earlier and came back with evergreen needles in his jacket and scrapes on his palms, apparently having been  _climbing trees_ , and then he seemed utterly bemused when Obi-Wan had laughed about it, and Obi-Wan didn’t quite know how to explain why he thought that was wonderful.

“If that’s not a back and neck ache in the making,” Obi-Wan said now, quietly, more to himself than to his sleeping companion.  To say he found it endearing would have been highly understating the situation.

Beyond the peacefulness of it was the effort it had taken to get here; it was overcoming instinct and past torments and plain unfamiliarity to reach this place.

He smiled and shook his head to himself, got up and retrieved a pillow from the bedroom, came back out, sat down with the pillow against his leg, and reached over to give Maul a tug.  For all of the difficulty Obi-Wan had encountered with navigating those horns in order to get physically close to Maul – he was still trying to work out how to properly  _hold_  the zabrak in bed without layers of cloth, bruises or dents left in his flesh – this one was a fairly easy one.

Maul roused enough to peer at him drowsily through his lashes – (one of two indicators of the human half of his genetic code Obi-Wan had found; the other one was the soft trail of vellus hair from the nape of his neck that went all the way down the line of his spine, matching the color of skin and markings, which fascinated Obi-Wan to no end much to Maul’s continued bafflement) – with a look that could have likely quickly turned to irritation, until Obi-Wan gave him another tug and he apparently figured out what he was being asked for and just curled up there as requested.

Obi-Wan draped one arm over him and turned back to his reading with the other, content with the weight of Maul’s head against his thigh, the quiet pop and crackle of the fire in the fireplace, the  _kindness_  of it all.  He didn’t really get much more reading done, despite his efforts; it was easy to get lost in the moment there, to appreciate it for what it was.

He was still happy when he woke up the next morning, with his datapad on the floor, his neck stiff, his knees sore and his feet cold, too.


	4. Fall (27 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin takes a tumble and Obi-Wan _doesn't_ use it as a lesson.

When Anakin went tumbling down the embankment, Obi-Wan’s heart tried to make a forced exit through his throat.

In a moment, he thought of torn skin, thought of firebeetles, thought about quietly spoken lessons on overconfidence while he sat trembling with his tears drying like a mask to his face.  He thought about the poison sting of shame and the way he had tried to cover it up by pretending it was funny, how he had gotten himself into that situation, how he deserved it for his hubris.

He had even succeeded.

All of that dissolved with Anakin’s short, startled cry and the sound of his lanky thirteen-year old self falling.  Obi-Wan snapped his hand out to use the Force to try to cushion the boy’s fall, but he wasn’t able to prevent all of it, and by the time Anakin came to a stop, he was quite a few meters down and picking himself up to sit, stunned and gasping.

Obi-Wan sidehilled down as fast as he could, boots sending loose rock skittering, until he was down on the same level.  It didn’t look like Anakin had broken anything, but the side of his leg was bleeding freely, leggings torn.  Sitting with his robe off his shoulders, tears cutting tracks on the dust on his face, padawan braid stuck to one cheek by them, he looked up at Obi-Wan like he couldn’t believe he had fallen and was waiting for–

–for Obi-Wan to scold him for it, like many of the Temple’s instructors did, for things both large and small.  Like the Council occasionally had, as they watched the Chosen One grow.  Like Qui-Gon would have, had he been here to watch the young teenage boy dancing with some abandon on the ridge above, caught in youthful exuberance and a desire to prove his footing.

All of it well-meaning, all of it cautionary, but none of it painless.

“Shhh.  Shh, Anakin, it’s all right,” Obi-Wan said, instead, a gentle murmur as he sat with a boot braced below him, getting into his belt to get out the small first aid kit.  He set that aside and got his canteen of water out next, to wash the grit and gravel out of the tears and scrapes. “I have you, it’s all right.”

Anakin hitched a breath, tears pouring down his face. “I fell.  I’m sorry, Master, I–”

“Everyone falls, at some time or another,” Obi-Wan answered, heart squeezing as he rested Anakin’s ankle against his own thigh, popping open the canteen.  "Did you know I once did the exact same thing when I was about your age?“ he asked, partly to distract Anakin from the certain stinging that washing that cut out would cause, partly to show the boy that he had done nothing requiring apology for.  "Except, there were firebeetles waiting for me at the bottom.”

Anakin half-laughed, half-sobbed a breath. “That would be really bad.”

“Oh, yes.  I think any living creature within a hundred kilometers heard me howling about it,” Obi-Wan answered, holding up the canteen to give Anakin fair warning.  True enough, the boy hissed and squirmed when the water started washing over his leg, draining blood into the dun colored rocks, but he didn’t jerk away and Obi-Wan kept talking in a low, soothing voice just to keep him grounded. “It would be my fortune, to stumble across a species of carnivorous beetle thought extinct.”

“Didn’t Master Qui-Gon help you?” Anakin asked, through clenched teeth.

Obi-Wan had to take a moment to figure out how to best answer that; in the end, though, Anakin’s reverence for Obi-Wan’s old master made the decision for him and he nodded. “Yes, he did.  It all happened fairly quickly.”  Those statements weren’t entirely related, but Anakin didn’t need to know that.

“I guess I’m lucky there aren’t any firebeetles here,” Anakin said, breathing out hard when the washing finally ended and Obi-Wan was spraying bacta foam over the newly rinsed injury, which would certainly ease the fire of it.  "And that you were here to catch me.“

“Well, that is what a master is for.”  Obi-Wan smiled, shaking his head. “Catching you until you’re able to catch yourself.”  It didn’t take him long to put a light dressing on the wound, and after he did, he tilted his head at Anakin and reached out to nudge the braid plastered to his cheek free. “What do you say to letting that leg rest for a little while and having dinner?”  Anakin could probably single-handedly eat a bantha right now, given how he was growing; it would also let the boy heal for a bit before training resumed.

Anakin’s tears were already drying, and he gave a wavering grin back, with no shame lurking on his face or in his eyes. “I say that sounds wizard.”


	5. Purpose (24 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maul contemplates his wardrobe. Surprisingly, that's not the opening line to a joke.

He missed his former clothing sometimes; the layers of fabric, most of it loose and light, wrapped around him like a cloud of shadow that flowed with his form.  The precision of dressing, too, one piece after another; it wasn’t armor, but it was uniform, the clothes of a warrior.  From undershirt to tunics and tabbards and belt and robes, most of it a black mirror to what the Jedi wore because practicality and the requirements of warriors knew no Order.

More, Maul missed the feeling of being whole, in a way that went well beyond the bodily loss, and the last time he was whole was in that uniform; when he was a master swordsman whose blood hummed in tune with a red saberstaff, a purpose, an art.

His clothing now was that of any common soldier; after the first few years, he was allowed enough privilege to choose what he wore within certain limitations, and thus chose fatigues for their simplicity and durability.  He had no great use for the pockets down the legs of his pants or the number of pockets in his jacket, until he was out on missions with Obi-Wan, but it was still uniform, if a vastly different kind.

He wondered if he would ever have purpose attached to it, but as yet, he didn’t.

Somehow, despite all that he didn’t think much about his current style of dress, it still startled him to stillness and furrowed brow when Obi-Wan came through the door wearing Maul’s dark gray fatigue jacket over his own undershirt, which looked thoroughly incongruous with the Jedi’s off-white leggings and brown boots.

Maul had intentionally requested the jacket a couple of sizes larger than his frame, in part for ease of movement, but also in the hopes that he would someday regain his peak of muscle mass across his shoulders and back and chest.  He wasn’t by any means stringy, he certainly had muscle, but he had also never quite shaken off the initial toll of his capture and imprisonment and subsequent despondency, either, remaining just lean enough to feel the dissonance between what he  _should_  be capable of and what he was  _actually_  capable of.

On him, the sleeves covered most of his hands to the middle knuckles of his fingers if he didn’t tighten the cuffs; on Obi-Wan, though, it fit as if it were made for him, settled perfectly across his shoulders and hanging open at his chest to show the white sleeveless undershirt.  The cool breeze outside had blown his hair into wild disarray, and somehow, the image he cut there – casual, as if he weren’t a Jedi, as if there was no Temple they would inevitably return to – was both strange and compelling.

“I thought I heard something outside,” Obi-Wan explained, sliding the jacket off and laying it over the back of the chair where he had grabbed it from on his way out, perhaps in last-minute thought.

“Was it anything?” Maul asked; he hadn’t sensed anything, himself.

Obi-Wan just shrugged.  "A night bird of some sort.  Apparently, something was trying to get into its nest.“

There was nothing more to it than that, but when Maul pulled his jacket on the next day, he turned his nose into the collar of it for a moment, where Obi-Wan’s scent lingered there.

Not purpose, maybe, but something else.


	6. Steps (24 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @shadowmaat. <333

Maul couldn't remember the last time he had been left to his own devices with something resembling freedom to move, but he was fairly sure that it hadn't happened in the past eight years. And, really, if he thought about it long enough, he realized that even his life before that had been restricted, if not directly by his former master, then by his own unsettling appearance and the mandate for him to remain unseen and unknown.

Obi-Wan never tracked him on these missions outside of the Temple; never took advantage of the inbuilt security measures in his cybernetics to keep a leash on him, even when they temporarily parted ways to perform their duties. The fact that escape wasn't an option was as much down to that silent faith that he wouldn't escape as it was Maul's resignation to being a prisoner; even when he had time -- and time was something prisoners had a great deal of -- he wasn't able to figure out where the line was, between one and the other.

He also no longer had a mandate to be remain invisible; out here, on these Temple-sanctioned missions, where Obi-Wan went, Maul went. They shared living space, shared whatever short-term routines they put together, shared missions and that often meant a great deal more exposure to the public than Maul was used to. Whenever they had to split up because the parameters of the mission demanded it, they came back together as soon as they were finished.

Chandrila, too, was far more civilized than most of their missions had been; they were in Hanna City, where there was open public transportation which was free to use and where it would be easy for Maul to go out and _do something_. The conference on non-Republic asylum-seekers that was being held guaranteed that he would blend in more than he might have otherwise, and since the conference was on a two-day break for the holiday it had been intentionally scheduled around, he didn't even have to go check the security perimeter while Obi-Wan played the diplomat.

Instead, he stayed in their suite and paced.

Obi-Wan had been fine at the conference the past three days, but before that, he had come back to the Temple after a mission with Skywalker which had left him looking exhausted. Uninjured, but-- tired. Before he had even really had the chance to unpack, he was collecting Maul so they could attend this conference, much to Skywalker's apparent chagrin.

For three days, Maul haunted the perimeter of the conference center and then the subsequent banquet halls, finding no credible threats, and Obi-Wan had gone and spoken with various groups and attended meetings, the Official Jedi Presence.

Now, though, Obi-Wan was asleep and seemed to show no signs of waking up. This wouldn't have normally bothered Maul, who could meditate or exercise or otherwise occupy himself, but it was late afternoon and that wasn't _normal_. While Maul was usually the one up first in the morning, Obi-Wan rarely slept past late morning even when he was afforded the chance to.

More than once, Maul went and gave him a shake, and every time Obi-Wan had reassured him that he was fine, he would be up in a few minutes, and -- apparently not realizing how _alarming_ this behavior was -- tried to tug Maul into laying back down with him before going right back to sleep. Sometimes on other missions that did work, especially in the early mornings and especially when the climate was cold and Maul didn't want to leave the warm blankets himself, but right now, it was just _distressing_.

After a few false starts, Maul had finally given up in getting Obi-Wan awake and moving and tried to occupy himself.

He failed to meditate and then he failed to lose himself in the physical exertion of calisthenics, and then he stood by the windows and stared out into the city. He ate precisely half of the fruit basket that had been given to them the day before, and he thought that he should comm for some delivery because maybe Obi-Wan would wake up when he got hungry enough, but then Maul realized he didn't know _how_.

They had credits; the Jedi were certainly afforded accommodation and often transportation due to their status as Republic guardians, but Obi-Wan also had enough credits to handle any incidentals that came up and while he didn't garner a paycheck, he wasn't shy about using those credits for non-mission reasons. Most often food, given his ineptitude at cooking, but sometimes it was tickets to a museum or taxi service to some place outside of their itinerary, and occasionally it was something frivolous; a candle he liked the scent of, another bag of tea to add to his wide collection, little things which had no purpose aside that Obi-Wan liked them. And the second Maul showed an interest in something, usually because it smelled good to him, Obi-Wan was trying to get it for him.

(This was how he had managed to end up with a rather startling array of skin lotions, which he didn't even _use_ ; he had a collection of bottles and tubes in his cell, unopened, because he had liked the smell of something and then Obi-Wan had presented it to him with that ridiculous little grin of his later, like a tooka bringing home prey. Maul never ceased being confused by this, but he kept them all anyway.)

Anyway, he had seen Obi-Wan comm for food several times. It wasn't that hard. Find the correct code in the planet-wide directory that most civilized planets had -- if not, then by word of mouth -- then request a menu and place the call. Hand over the credits with a tip when the food was delivered.

The fact that Maul had seen it done and yet still had no idea _how_ to do it was-- troublesome.

They didn't even have tea in.

He realized he was pacing again and stopped, staring out the windows. The light of day kept moving. He went to go and wake Obi-Wan, then stopped himself; stood in the doorway to the bedroom and stared at the peacefully slumbering Jedi, sprawled across most of the bed.

Obi-Wan had to wake up eventually. And it wasn't like patience wasn't something Maul was practiced in, by now.

 

 

 

Two hours later, when the sun was just above the horizon and about to set, Maul stared in deep dismay at the thumbnail he'd bitten down to the point of bleeding; he waited, perfectly still, for the shock through the metal floor on bared feet he no longer had, punishment for allowing himself to fall into such a nervous habit and reminder that he could control such things.

The shock never came, had not in well over twenty years, but he almost wished it would have anyway. Both for the correction, and for the _feeling_ of it; even pain, better than nothing.

 

 

 

It was dark.

It was mostly by necessity that Maul had lived in the night, in his prior life, where shadows could conceal him beneath of his cloak and he could move amongst the underworld crowds here or there, when he had to.

He had only intentionally broken his anonymity once, of his own accord; he was sixteen or so, still fairly new to Coruscant, and on one restless night -- having been left by his master for weeks without word -- he had gone out into the Crimson Corridor buried in his black robes, and when he found a bodymod shop run by an older Nautolan woman, headtails stunningly tattooed and large black eyes that reminded him of Kilindi's, he had gone in and even though he had no credits, he had left again with a silver stud in his ear, some vague tremble left in his chest and shoulders and knees for the cool touch of her fingers, the gentleness of her eyes, the sense of having been given some kindness he didn't deserve and couldn't afford.

He should have taken it back out right away, but he didn't. He was on Coruscant. He had proven himself; he had killed an entire academy of cadets and instructors, including his partner. He had been given a platform upon which to serve. He was ill at ease and proud of that little silver stud, all at the same time; it felt like it was his.

After his Master found out, it became a reminder: This body wasn't his, no more than anything else was.

Now, looking over the graceful build of Hanna City in its nightlights, he rubbed at that spot on his ear, the hole long-since healed; he was fairly sure the Jedi had taken it, but he hadn't noticed the absence until weeks after he had been in that cell, and when he did, he didn't know how he was supposed to feel about it. Even years later, when the thought so rarely crossed his mind, he didn't quite know how to remember it: The woman's gentle touch and gentle eyes, even with the accompanying pain of it; the cold inspection after, even with the ensuing punishment.

Years removed, it was not so clear-cut anymore, who he had belonged to then. Who he belonged to _now_.

Despite having been stagnant all day, Maul felt oddly exhausted. He had paced across this suite more times than he could count. He kept fighting the compulsion to sit in a corner; he wasn't sure where that one came from. He hadn't brutalized anymore fingernails, at least.

He wanted a cup of tea, but they didn't have any. He wanted Obi-Wan to wake up, but after his last attempt, the idea had started to grab hold that waking the Jedi would be wrong, somehow; that something bad would happen if he did.

He thought about the comm codes, and ordering delivery. Did anyone even deliver tea? They usually always brought their own, but Obi-Wan hadn't had time to grab any before they had left the Temple again.

He was pacing again. And again, he stopped himself and stood in the middle of the living area. He could pull up the comm codes on the HoloNet, maybe. He could even order food that way, maybe. He could find out if anyone delivered tea, too.

He stared at the console.

 

 

 

He came back in a corner, the dark world resolving into shades of gray, which sharpened into shapes. Furniture. Windows. Two doors; the exit, the balcony. He shuddered and closed his eyes again, dizzy; stayed there until he stopped trembling. 

 

 

 

Everything was quiet. Unlike Coruscant, Hanna City slept. There were still people moving, but very few comparatively. The cool night air was pleasant; even for being a city, the miasma of pollution didn't exist here, and so mostly it just smelled crisp and clean. They were up on a hillside, and he could look down and see the way this city was laid out, until it reached the harbor.

It didn't really occur to Maul even then that nothing might be open. He just stood right in the door, the tips of his boots right at the threshold, and tried to take a step, even a small one.

Just one. Just one.

Oddly alert and entirely exhausted; it was not yet morning twilight. He knotted his jaw and reached outside; then, calling himself the coward he was being, he ground his teeth together and took that step.

Nothing happened. No alarms, no shocks, no attacks. Just him, outside. One step out the door.

He stood until his head stopped spinning, then turned around and palmed the door control before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, feeling the door keycard in one and the credits he had dug out of Obi-Wan's robes in the other.

 

 

 

At this time of year, Chandrila's night cycle was short.

No one bothered Maul. He garnered some looks when he passed the few pedestrians out, those who either worked early mornings or those going home from very late nights, but they were curious rather than hostile, and he didn't bare his teeth at them, just ducked his head in a universal sign of bipedal body language that he didn't want to engage. He rued his inability to keep a cast-iron grip on his own responses to things; the sudden swoop of a bird out of a doorway had startled him and left him staring after it, until he could make himself move again.

The morning twilight was just starting to color the sky, soft pastels arising from the deep blue, city-stained night when Maul found a store that was open. Inside, beings moved around, mostly human and a few other species; the smell of caf drifted out of the door when it opened and Maul was fairly sure there was tea in there, as well.

It still took him several minutes to walk in.

Like before, he gained some curious looks. A human woman paused and complimented him on his markings, cheerfully, and didn't seem offended when he only blinked back at her, startled. She was dressed for business and in a hurry. A child ran by, forcing him to jump backwards a pace to avoid being an obstacle.

The smell of fresh-made things reminded him that he was hungry, something that was hit or miss even now; the realization of hunger as something which he felt and further, the realization that it was something he could actually  _alleviate_ if he wanted to. Obi-Wan was likely to be starving when he woke up, too, and half of a fruit basket wasn't going to make much of a dent, especially given it wasn't very large.

After another couple moments orienting himself, Maul worked his way through the aisles. There _was_ tea, several varieties of it. He picked one that came in a tin, local rather than imported from some other world, and then he agonized for quite some time about what to pick to eat, standing still and considering it all. Pre-packaged would be good enough, but he kept getting drawn back to where the hot foods were, and when it was his turn at the counter to order, his voice blended in easily with everyone else's; all of their accents were inner core, only some minor variations on dialect and inflection.

It was one of Deenine's legacies, given the droid had been the one who had taught Maul to talk. Even in all of the years since then, everything that had happened, Maul's accent had never faded. He was relieved, in some strange way, that at least aloud he was nothing notable here, even if he was apparently eye-catching otherwise.

The pantoran behind the counter was patient, while he picked things out; answered his questions cheerfully and then wrapped everything up neatly, passing the food across the counter as Maul passed back the credits.

Despite it not being disastrous, it was still a relief to get back outside.

 

 

 

The sun was coming up when he made it back to their suite, and by then, the long night and the likewise long spikes of anxiety had Maul all but reeling. He unlocked the door and paused inside, scanning it visually and listening and stretching out with the Force, but everything was calm. Obi-Wan was still asleep, but Maul no longer quite had the energy left to pace over it, even if he still worried over it.

He went and set the bag of food on the nightstand, walking quietly, then went back out to the kitchenette to make tea, leaning on the counter with both hands while the water heated, eyes closed in the golden morning light, warm against the side of his face.

He might have even half-dozed there; he didn't hear Obi-Wan come up, didn't know the man was even there until the hand rested between his shoulders made him jump in surprise.

Obi-Wan's face went from drowsy peace to worried. "Are you all right?"

Maul wasn't quite sure he knew the answer to that; he wasn't sure _what_ he was, right now. But after a moment, he nodded, scrubbing at his face one-handedly. "I'm fine. I went out and bought breakfast. And tea."

Obi-Wan looked a little confused, and still concerned. "You look worn out."

"Long night." Maul wasn't in any hurry to describe it; it wasn't so much that it was _bad_ \-- parts were, but parts weren't -- but he didn't want to make Obi-Wan fall into any apology loops, either. Beyond the fact that Maul was vastly unused to people apologizing to him, even now, Obi-Wan tended to do it almost compulsively sometimes, as if he couldn't help himself, and that often left Maul feeling more uneasy, not less. "I am fine," he added, pointedly. "Are you?"

"I must have been more tired than I thought I was." Obi-Wan gave a bit of a sheepish smile, shaking his head and leaning over to kiss Maul on the cheek, before he went to go and get the plain mugs out of the cabinet beneath the counter. "I don't think I've slept that long in years."

"You probably needed it."

"Probably." Obi-Wan looked over again, that same searching expression, but thankfully didn't ask any more difficult questions. "Thank you for bringing breakfast. It smells wonderful."

"Some sort of pastry. There are a few different flavors in there." Maul left him to get the tea and went to sit down at the small table, where Obi-Wan had left the bag, and pulled it open to fish something out. His mind refused to be sorted, though he was trying to figure out what they were going to do with the day. There was a certain amount of relief that Obi-Wan was awake beyond the worry; he seemed to have little trouble planning these things.

Whatever this pastry was made of, it was good. Light, flaky. The fruit inside was sticky, but only slightly sweet and a little bit tart at the same time. He finished one off, then sipped on the tea Obi-Wan had brought him. They spent the time in silence, a peaceable quiet that they often fell into, especially in the mornings, and Maul was relieved when the last of the night's tension had faded, even if he was less so for how tired he really was in the after.

By the time he was half done in the 'fresher, trying to shake off his drowsiness, Obi-Wan was there; much to Maul's confusion, Obi-Wan took the clean shirt out of his hands and laid it aside, then regarded him fondly before moving.

One moment Maul was on his feet. The next, he _wasn't._

He flailed out in shock, latching onto Obi-Wan's bare shoulders, hearts hammering in surprise as he found himself up in the Jedi's arms.

Obi-Wan held him a bit tighter, expression a little apologetic. "Shh, shh. I won't drop you. I think it's your turn to spend a bit of time in bed."

It took a few seconds for Maul to speak, just about as many as it took for him to undig his fingernails from Obi-Wan's skin, and his voice sounded thready when he said, "I don't want to sleep all day."

"Then, a few hours' nap. We don't have anywhere to be." Obi-Wan seemed in no hurry to  _put him down_ , and instead turned and walked them back into the bedroom, just standing beside the bed as if it were perfectly normal to have an ex-Sith draped in his arms. He grinned, then. "I have to say, I rather like this."

"Like what?" Maul asked, still wondering what exactly was going on here.

Obi-Wan's face softened even further. "Holding you like this."

Even were he fully awake and in peak form, Maul wouldn't have known how to answer that. It wasn't a bad feeling; a heady mix between confusion and warmth, but it defied any words that he knew. His shoulders were still tense in the anticipation of a fall, but somewhere in his head, he knew that wasn't going to happen.

After another moment of apparently just enjoying himself, Obi-Wan set him down on the bed and tugged his boots off, and whatever else Maul had been trying to sort in his head faded into a pleasant heaviness; the bed was soft and sun-warm from the light through the window, and it smelled like Obi-Wan, too. He was already half-asleep by the time Obi-Wan stretched out beside him -- how Obi-Wan wasn't unbearably stiff was beyond Maul's comprehension -- and the brush of beard and lips against his brow and the bridge of his nose and his mouth didn't startle him.

In a year and some months, Maul wouldn't be able to grasp why Obi-Wan thought it was wonderful that he had disappeared to go climb evergreens, reappearing hours later with needles in his jacket, needing no permission nor even much thought to do so.

But for now, he just thought, _Tea and mint,_ and decided that it had been worth all that effort to fall asleep like that, with the taste of Obi-Wan's lips still on his own.


	7. Waiting (29 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two and a half years into captivity, and there are at least some small cracks in the depression.

Once a month or so, Vokara Che requested his presence.

At first, Maul took her summons as orders, not quite knowing if the Jedi version of a request _was_ actually an order in disguise and what the price of defying it would be, but after a year's worth of these requests, he had tested his theory and found that-- nothing happened. No punishment. What scraps of privilege he had gained were not taken away. No one drove him out of his cell on electrical currents or dragged him out bodily.

So, he went of his own accord, when she sent for him the next time.

He didn't particularly like those visits, which usually consisted of her asking questions and him answering them, but they broke up the monotony of passing time somewhat, especially when Kenobi wasn't around to do so. Imprisonment was-- incredibly empty. They allowed him to read, but often he found himself unable to focus well enough to get very far, and Maul had never in his life just read for the pleasure of it, so he couldn't really dig out a purpose. Presumably he would be allowed educational materials, but what would be the point?

He was also allowed to exercise, but for that first year or so, he didn't make any effort. The body he had worked incredibly hard to turn into a weapon wasn't really _his_ anymore (it had never been his, except in combat); half of it was gone, and stagnation had taken a toll on what was left. Remembering to eat was also difficult; he was used to ignoring hunger, so used to it that he often wouldn't notice that he hadn't eaten anything until he was already dizzy. Before all of this, he could have relied on the Force, but how could one harness it when they didn't really _feel_ anything?

The healer had asked after that, too; when Maul told her matter-of-factly that he just forgot, she made a schedule and thus, he at least most of the time did eat regularly. He didn't really feel any more like he belonged in this flesh and metal form, but that didn't matter.

Aside those visits, imprisonment was numbing. He fell into routines and did as he was told, and exercise usually just consisted of walking, which he would have found darkly humorous given there was no muscle in his legs to upkeep, but even that bit of gallows humor was out of reach.

Kenobi was faithful about visiting and bringing lunch, though. Most of the time, Maul just sat with him and ate and listened to the man prattle on about things, and sometimes he even processed enough of what was being said to say something himself. He became accustomed to that; to sharing lunch and drinking tea and listening and occasionally speaking. He kept waiting for Kenobi to turn on him -- he remembered when Kenobi wanted to finish him off -- but it never happened.

He wasn't sure when he _stopped_ waiting for that. If he even did, or if it simply became an accepted possibility instead of a steady threat.

It was two and a half years into his life as a prisoner when he started trying to get himself back into some kind of acceptable shape. He had started properly working out here or there, but nothing like regularly; some days, even sitting up was effort he struggled with, but at least on other days, he could make himself exercise and usually that helped him feel a little better for awhile.

The catalyst for that was, of course, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

He had been on what was supposed to be a light mission with Skywalker, the kind of mission that had a definite time of return, so when he didn't return on the expected day, Maul had noticed.

When he didn't bring lunch the day after that, Maul started _worrying_.

Worry was something he rarely felt these days; after two and a half years of barely feeling anything, it was a lot to take. He found himself pacing restlessly, from one end of his cell to the other; when he was allowed to go exercise, he actually _did_ exercise, to the point of making his arms tremble. He slept poorly, woke up on edge and went right back to pacing, bypassing breakfast. He made the guards nervous, who were used to him being much quieter and more still.

Despite being sore, he wore himself back out again in the training room, and then went back to his cell to pace yet more.

By the third day, Maul was almost ready to literally climb the walls.

It must have reached the point where it alarmed the Temple Guard, because he was summoned back to the Halls of Healing a full week before he would have been otherwise.

Kenobi was there.

Maul could feel it the moment he walked in; he had been in some proximity to the Jedi nearly daily, absent the occasional period without, for two and a half years. Kenobi's Force signature was, by now, incredibly familiar to him.

"Are you all right?" Vokara Che asked, brow knitted in concern.

It was a question Maul rarely, if ever, had an answer to. As such, he bypassed it artlessly. "Kenobi's here."

Her brow furrowed even deeper. "He is. He just got back this morning; apparently, he had gotten himself caught up in a bar fight and met the business end of a slugthrower. He'll be all right, he's resting and letting the bacta work on his arm."

Maul nodded, not-- even remotely sure how to process the sense of  _relief_ he felt at those words. He silently splayed his fingers out at his sides, trying to will away the strangeness in them, and then nodded a second time, not remembering that he had already nodded the first, before turning to walk out and go back to his cell.

"Wait," the healer said, and when he paused and half-turned back, she reached out and pressed her hand to the back of his shoulder, a small nudge in the direction of the rooms. "Why don't you go sit with him for awhile; he's bored and restless and could use the company."

It was not exactly a request, but also not exactly a command. Nor was it a suggestion. Later, when he was a little more steady, Maul would reflect that healers had that unique ability to walk between all of those things in order to get what they wanted; Vokara Che was quite good at it.

(Later, years later, he would also realize that it had not really been Obi-Wan who she was trying to help by giving him that nudge.)

After another moment of uncertainty, Maul gave a third nod and went in the direction she pointed to go and sit with the wounded Jedi.


	8. Bitter (30 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin doesn't understand why Obi-Wan keeps going back to visit Qui-Gon's murderer.

“He killed Master Qui-Gon.”

Obi-Wan stopped, hands hovering over the thermos he had just poured fresh tea into.

Anakin stood in the doorway; it was only now that Obi-Wan remembered that his mid-day philosophy class had been cancelled for an initiate tournament. He cursed internally, but externally, he maintained a calm expression. “I know, Anakin.”

“But you go and see him anyway.”

The tone was bitter and accusatory. Both things which Obi-Wan should be admonishing his padawan for; things which Qui-Gon most certainly would have. And the temptation was there to do just that; to remind the boy, firmly, that bitterness was unbecoming and that he should meditate on his anger and release it.

But Anakin spent every single day, all day, being admonished. Being _firmly reminded_ of what he was and wasn’t allowed to feel. Obi-Wan even did it sometimes, especially when it was Anakin’s short temper over an inconvenience, rather than something which would merit a stronger response.

The boy spent all day being told how to be. But Obi-Wan tried to give Anakin at least one space in the galaxy where he was allowed to just be _himself_ , even if he did so imperfectly.

He had tried to explain before, his interest in continuing to visit Maul. Tried to explain why. He had tried to appeal to Anakin’s better nature – which Anakin had; for as much temper as the boy had, he had twice as much heart – and to explain how little choice Maul had in the life he had lived, but ultimately, Anakin never forgave Qui-Gon’s death. Obi-Wan’s explanations fell on deaf ears.

The only answer he had to it was to just keep them separate. Not physically, but in _existence_. Obi-Wan only went to the Detention Center when Anakin was in class or otherwise fully occupied; he didn’t bring up the ex-Sith at all, anymore. And for the most part, that worked.

But today, thanks to some absent-mindedness, Anakin was reminded that Maul existed and that Obi-Wan was still a part of that existence, and thus the bitterness.

“Someday, I hope you’ll understand,” was all Obi-Wan had heart to say right now. He finished capping the thermos, then pushed it aside; it was likely that today, Maul would be on his own, given Anakin not being in class.

Anakin just stared back at him, a confused mix between anger and hurt, then shook his head and headed for his room. “I don’t.”


	9. Silence (24 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bail and Breha, trying to cope with that last miscarriage and the loss of any potential future biological children; referenced in Staring into open flame.

When Breha was told that trying to bear children again would likely kill her, she didn’t look angry or even really sad.

She looked exhausted.

She looked _relieved_.

Bail stood close at hand, trying to unobtrusively draw air out of the airless room into lungs that felt seized, unable to grasp or process any of the words which came after the tolling bell of _fatal_ , the world narrowed down to the tunnel his wife was on the other end of.

She looked relieved.

 _I did this,_ he thought, only many years of training and practice keeping him from showing outwardly the _horror_ he felt at that realization. It was not the first time he’d had that thought, but it was the first time that he realized that Breha was _grateful_ to have an end to it, grateful to finally have a definitive answer to their repeated losses, in the form of never having to try again. _I did this,_ he thought, and tried to drag a breath into his frozen body.

She didn’t say anything to him, but on her way out the door, she paused and gave his arm a squeeze, her mouth pressed into a line, and then she walked out with her back straight, the only sign of her ordeal right then in the way it seemed far more than a world and system were sitting on her shoulders.

Bail swayed briefly, then caught himself. Finally managed to get enough air to keep from making a fool of himself by _fainting_ , of all things. The pressure of her hand, small and strong, followed him out the door and all the way back to Coruscant, back to his apartment, and all the way into brandy-soaked oblivion, too.

 


	10. Breathless (32-22 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bail never stopped loving his wife, even after he could no longer like himself.

Bail knew his father had lovers. He had understood that from around the age of eight; that sometimes, arranged marriages were not the kind built on love, but on necessity or gain or alliance. His mother and father were kind to one another, and they were friends, but they were never in love. They had four children together, but aside to conceive, they slept in separate beds.

Bail didn’t know if his mother had lovers; if she did, she was exceptionally discreet about it. But then, she was the matriarch and Alderaan had taken a distinct turn towards being more matriarchal after the Civil War. She was held to a different standard than her husband, whether that was fair or not.

Bail had always assumed that he was going to end up much the same. Married for political reasons, rather than love. So when the Acendency Contention resulted in a marriage promise between House Organa and House Antilles, he couldn’t say he was surprised. He didn’t have any current lovers, so while he was plenty nervous about meeting his future wife, he also was willing to see what happened.

“Well, it could be worse,” she had said when he stepped off the shuttle at the river port to meet her, looking him up and down, voice dry and good-humored. Bail had laughed, surprised, looking down over his casual clothes and when he looked up and she grinned at him, his heart jumped, sped up and-- that was it.

Just like that.

“Thanks, I think,” he said back, breathless and still smiling so wide his face hurt from it, as he took her offered hand and kissed her knuckles. “Wow. Okay, hi. I’m Bail, your, uh-- future husband, who is apparently not the worst.”

It was Breha’s turn to laugh, and she did. “That’s good to know. Otherwise, this would have become very awkward, very quickly.” She took her hand back, smile softening a little bit as she looked up at him. “Hi, Bail. I’m Breha, your future wife. Feel like having a cup of caf with me?”

“I’d love to,” Bail answered, and meant it entirely.

 

 

 

Despite all of the Alderaanian romantic poetry he had been exposed to thanks to having a sister who majored in literature, Bail hadn’t honestly believed in such a thing as love-at-first-sight. It was a sweet concept, but it didn’t seem realistic. How could anyone fall for someone just on one meeting?

Boy, was he proven wrong.

Breha was-- beautiful. In her casual clothes, her black hair plaited over a shoulder with a winding seafoam colored ribbon, her bangs wind-blown, she walked with a dancer’s grace. She tucked a hand in the crook of Bail’s arm and walked with him like she had been doing so all of her life, and he kept stealing glances at her, even after he tripped on a bowed part of the stone walk they were on.

But even more than her physical beauty, there was her laugh. She had a vaguely smokey voice -- he wasn’t surprised weeks later when he learned that she used to sing in taverns during her first couple of years as a student teacher, both for some extra credits and also just for the pleasure of it -- and when she laughed, she’d let her head fall back, eyes closed, clinging to Bail’s arm and just-- letting herself give into it. None of the polite, quiet laughter of a politician or noblewoman, but the joyful belly laugh of someone who knew the value of such things.

She was sharp, too. Clever. Bail walked into a couple of different traps, only to have her sense of humor spring closed on him unexpectedly, leaving him laughing himself breathless. More seriously, she had formed opinions on a wide range of political and social issues, and they almost on the whole lined up with Bail’s, though even when they didn’t, she could present her point of view in such a way that he could understand it, even if he didn’t entirely agree.

And she was _tough_. Bail sat listening with his chin on the heel of his hand as she recounted what she had been doing before being called back to Alderaan, raptly fascinated as she described the situations she had not only lived through, but helped _other_ people through.

Bail was so hooked by the time they parted ways for the night that he didn’t even feel the fact that he had been out hours after he had planned on being home. It was only a few hours before dawn when he finally made it in the door, and he still sat up just-- thinking it all over, unsteady and still-breathless and hopelessly, hopefully, strangely, wildly in love.

 

 

 

And Bail never stopped loving her.

Not when he traced the scars she picked up on worlds where there was no bacta to erase them. Not when they got into a stiff argument for the first time about an issue they both felt passionately about. Not when she ascended to the throne and time became precious for them both. Not when he became Senator, succeeding her uncle, and moved to Coruscant.

Not when she miscarried. Not when it happened again, and again, and again.

And again.

By then, he hated himself plenty, but he never, ever stopped loving her.

It really might have been the only reason that he never went over that final ledge; that fact that he loved her. And that despite his flaws, she loved him back.

"I’m lucky to have you, Dove,” he said, one late night when their conversation had tapered, nothing but a pair of blue ghosts to one another, so far away.

He didn’t need to see her in detail to see the sorrow in her eyes when he could hear it in her voice as she answered, _“Oh, Bail. Luck had nothing to do with it, dear-heart.”_

He wished then that he could believe that.

Some of it must have been in his mind, buried deep and covered like a grave, when he demanded Master Obi-Wan Kenobi take him to Zigoola only a couple of months later.


	11. Flowers (31 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't startle the teacher. She _knows things_. (Like how to throw a man a whole foot taller than her.)

One second he was sneaking up on his wife with a handful of flowers – and not the kind he ordered or stopped at a florist for, the kind he picked himself from the untamed scatter in the areas they were left to grow wild on the way between his office and the palace – and the next thing he knew, he was staring at the ceiling.

Bail went to ask what happened and only ended up wheezing.

There was a startled huff, some _very_ salty language, and then Breha was leaning into view, eyes wide and worried, braid tumbling down over her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Nothing felt broken anyway, but it took him a few seconds to convince his lungs to work. He gave a little cough and then caught his breath before answering, “Yeah. Are _you?_ ”

Breha nodded, reaching down to offer him a hand up. “I’m fine,” she said, giving him a bit of a rueful – and sheepish – smile, before she looked at the flowers scattered all over the place. “Maybe a little bit of an extreme reaction to a bouquet–”

Instead of getting up, Bail tugged her down until she was sitting perched on his hips; surrounded by his attempted bouquet, he really could only laugh. “If you wanted me on my back, all you had to do was ask.”

She wrinkled her nose back, playfully, then leaned down and ghosted her mouth across his, her already smokey voice becoming moreso as she murmured, “Fine, since you’re already here…”

There might have been some kind of pithy response, some half-formed clever bit of wordplay, but it was lost entirely to her lips on his, and the flowers didn’t get gathered back up for another two hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a story that takes place between _Staring into open flame_ and _Blackbirds: Year One_ , which I pulled from the series because I don't know when -- or even if -- it'll ever be finished. So, even though the events in it do take place, the story is incomplete for the time being and it's not entirely, one-hundred percent vital to understanding the rest of the series. If you want to read it, it's called [And in between the moon and you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190554); consider it, for now, as something of a 'DVD extra.'


	12. Recipe (23 BBY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt: _I often remember that tiny part in Witness Me were Obi-wan is dorkly over the moon about the fact that Maul went out to climb trees. I'd love to see more of those similar scenarios where Obi enjoys seeing Maul do 'fun' things of his own volition and Maul is simply confused by it. I always thought it was just so sweet._ This is the same mission as Sprawl and Contentment (since they were there for like a whole month and a half.)

Obi-Wan was going to regret leaving this world in another week, when the negotiations were finalized and they had to return to the Temple.

The market around him wasn’t bustling, but it was pleasantly active; the sounds of voices murmuring to one another in conversation or haggling washed across him like the cool breeze that brought with it the still-distant scent of rain and dried leaves and a little bit of woodsmoke from a vendor who sold food. It was their usual place to pick up food to take back to the rental cabin, and–

And he was going to miss this. Seeing the same market, living in the same home, sharing a routine; he thought that this must be what life could look like, outside of the Temple. What it could look like, if he wasn't a Jedi and Maul wasn't a prisoner; what it could look like if they merely had to worry about earning their roof and dinner, and not about what the galaxy at large was doing. He didn't know what it said about him, this impossible longing, but he did know he was going to miss it. 

He had the canvas bag looped over his arm with their dinner – soup, some manner of broiled red meat from local livestock, a salad featuring a number of kinds of squash – and he was just about to go find the baker’s stall when Maul caught up to him.

Apparently Maul had beaten him to it; he had a loaf of bread wrapped in a paper bag and in hand was some other manner of baked good that Obi-Wan didn’t recognize that he was working on.

“What’s that?” Obi-Wan asked, curiously; it was dark but for the bright bits of color in it, violet and red and orange.

“Black-wheat honey bread,” Maul answered, readily shifting his haul to his other arm and tearing his find carefully, then offering Obi-Wan the other half; the light of the evening sun seemed to burnish the gold of his eyes and when he glanced over, the–- easiness, the soft and relaxed expression he wore pulled on Obi-Wan’s heart and caught in his throat. “I was curious, so I asked after it. According to the baker, the bright pieces are bits of flower pedals; they don’t taste like anything, but they make the bread smell good.”

Obi-Wan took the chunk he was offered; it was still warm from the oven, and it did smell amazing.

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “Perhaps you should ask for the recipe.”

Maul scoffed, good-naturedly. “I don’t know the first thing about baking, and I don’t think it’s a good idea to let you near an oven to try.”

Obi-Wan just took him in for another moment, then brought the bread up to breathe in the fragrant scent of it before shaking his head, something sweet and aching lodged in his chest, almost too big to be contained there.

“You should ask anyway.”


	13. Afterglow (22 BBY)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: _Cooking lessons with Breha Organa, Queen of Alderaan_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, the context for this piece is that it takes place post-Zigoola. I had originally intended to write a long-ass story involving that, and indeed got a start on it, but wasn't able to keep traction. If you want to read it, though, [**here's the link**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190554); it does have some very charming moments (including Maul's commentary on the sheer amount of hair Obi-Wan has) and it also goes more into the aftermath of that mission. I don't know if I'll ever pick it back up, but I _have_ written some snippets for that little vacation on Alderaan, so I figured I would post them here in the hopes that someday I'll either add _And in between the moon and you_ back into the series proper, or if not, then just to share some more moments in time from Witness me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. XD

“The shalah. Like a potato, but even better,” Breha said, holding up the oblong item in question, a grin playing on her mouth. “When you just want hearty and filling, the potato is fine, but when you want someone to stagger away from the dinner table feeling like they’ve just been given an orgasm via their mouth, always go for the shalah. It’s more expensive, but it’s worth it.”

Maul was staring back at her with a look of such deep bemusement that it was genuinely comical, an impression that was only enhanced by the fact he was still using Bail's comparatively huge shirt as something of a makeshift jacket and had to keep pushing the rolled up sleeves back up his arms. Meanwhile, at the kitchen table – having been chased there on pain of death when he managed to ruin _soup stock_ of all things – Obi-Wan turned a shade of red that made him seem like he was glowing. Breha had been in more than enough classrooms to recognize his subsequent laugh, which despite his age, belonged to a twelve-year-old in sex-ed.

Not that Bail was helping matters. He was down the counter cutting shallots and dropped his knife, sputtering.

_Boys_ , she thought, with undeniable affection, chewing down a laugh.

Maul looked between the both of them for a moment, then looked back at Bre. “Understood,” he said, so straight-faced that it was almost impossible to tell if he was joking or if he was dead serious.

Bre grinned back at that, then plunked the tuber into his hand. “Cube those up – leave the skins on – and I’ll show you a recipe I learned on my first extra-solar teaching trip.”

 

 

 

Cooking with Bail was always a joy; early in their marriage, he and Breha had their own small kitchen installed in their master suite just because they both greatly enjoyed cooking and it was even better sharing the space. On nights where they were exhausted, they ate whatever the palace kitchen prepared, but on most nights they made the time and took the effort to make meals together.

They shared family recipes and invented some new ones. Their winter soup. A spring gumbo. Double-stuffed shalahs, with cheese and meat to go with the naturally buttery, smooth texture of the shalah itself. Those were some of the happiest times of Breha’s life, before everything had started grinding them down.

Now, cooking with him again, she found their rhythm had remained just as good; she worked on throwing together an emergency stock after Obi-Wan’s disaster, while Bail hand-cut all of the roasting vegetables and spices.

It felt much like coming home.

She caught him watching her teaching Maul how to prepare the nerf steaks; caught the look of peace in his eyes that he had been missing for so long. And as they passed around one another, his hand skimmed across the backs of her shoulders, a light and gentle tease and promise that had been absent for far too long.

So many things still ached. But there had been a moment where she had stood there, and she realized that she _knew_ this man. He had lied to her. He had kept things from her. But she _knew_ him; knew his heart, even cracked and sore, and this had felt like a watershed, like a turning point.  It didn't fix everything, it didn't change that she and Bail had a lot of things to talk about and work out, but it had been the moment she had realized that under all of their troubles, the good in them --  _of them_ \-- was every bit as real as it had ever been, and that they would find their way back to it starting here.

“I’m perfectly willing to set the table, but I don’t know why I have to do the dishes alone,” Obi-Wan complained, pulling her attention back to the moment; his tone was such that Bre knew he was joking, poking at them playfully from where he had been relegated to busboy, and she was so deeply glad that Bail had brought these two home.

“Because you’re _dangerous_ ,” Bail answered, tongue-in-cheek, as he layered the vegetables and onions in the roasting pan before adding the honey glaze over them. “Consider it repayment for almost ruining dinner.”

“If dinner is going to be so good I suffer afterglow, I’m hardly going to feel like washing up.”

Breha watched as Maul’s brow wavered, as he was whipping the shalahs into a smooth texture, turning to lean back against the counter and watching all of this happening. Once Obi-Wan realized he was being watched, he turned red all over again.

“Suffer?” Bail asked, turning and slapping the counter in faux belligerence as he did. “Are you saying that this lovingly prepared homemade meal we’re making that’s so good your eyes are gonna cross is going to result in _suffering?_ ”

Obi-Wan had the good grace to throw his hands up in surrender; even still red, his eyes were wide but bright and happy. “All right, all right. If dinner is so good that I want to lay on the ground moaning, I’m _still_ not going to feel like washing up.”

“If it’s that difficult, I can help with it,” Maul offered, after a beat or two.

That sent Bail off; he buried his face in his hands and laughed like Bre had not heard him laugh in a long time.

“All right, jokers. Back to work, or we’ll be eating at midnight,” she said, but she was chuckling herself when she went back to it.

 

 

 

They had dinner at the kitchen table; there was no formal dining room in this house. Somehow, that made it more intimate, not less; there were no fine adornments, no expensive silverware, and the plates they used were mismatched by time and collection. The only concession to the high life they had was the bottle of wine from Bail’s family’s vineyard.

Obi-Wan _did_ moan at least once, though he got sheepish about it. Bail poked fun at him for it, unsurprisingly. Bre just listened to them, as did Maul; just watched as the two unlikely friends bantered back and forth, all of their wit on display. It was charming and kind and it felt very much like family.

It was Maul who got in the last word, though; after finishing dinner and half a glass of wine, he contemplated the empty plate and said, “It was good; I don’t know if I would go so far as _orgasmic_ , but perhaps with more practice–”

He managed to shock all three of them into silence with that; as he got up to put his plate in the sink, Bre caught the little satisfied quirk at the corner of his mouth when Bail busted up laughing and Obi-Wan quite nearly choked on his wine.


	14. Futures (22 BBY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another piece on Alderaan, where the very first seeds are planted for the Blackbirds.

“Isn’t it– I dunno, taboo?”

Maul cocked his head at Bail and Bail figured that the bemusement probably answered the question well enough. Still, Maul asked, “By what definition?”

It took a moment for Bail to think about it, but then he answered, “I’m not sure. I mean, I know it’s considered incredibly rude to ask a Jedi to handle their lightsaber – all potential double entendres aside – and no one else aside the Sith uses them as weapons. I figured there were some kind of rules governing it.”

That was apparently food for thought, because Maul ran his hand over his half of his saberstaff, thumb sliding against the polished silver and black hand-grips as he chewed it over. When he did speak again, it was with some care, “A lightsaber is a tool. What makes it– personal, I suppose, what lends it significance is the relationship the wielder builds with it. Anyone can pick one up and use it, though not just anyone can hear it and feel it as a presence in the Force.”

Something about Maul’s tone reminded Bail very much of his wife; it felt good that such a thought made him smile instead of wince. “I guess I always thought you kind of had to be a Force user to avoid cutting off your own head or something.”

“No.” Maul shook his head, rather emphatically. “The Force makes it easier to use a saber; it lends us intuition and speed and the ability to anticipate an opponent more quickly, but _skill_ – the art of it, the motion of it – is down to the work of the person holding the blade.”

Bail nodded, feeling oddly touched by that as he rolled his wrist, getting used to the weight and balance of the other half of the staff he had in hand, though the blade wasn’t lit. It did feel almost intuitive there, not unlike a well-made fishing rod.  Come to think of it, that analogy was pretty apt. Even before this, when it had been years since he had last gone fishing, he could feel the weight of it like a direct extension on his arm; could imagine without any thought the motions, coded into his muscle memory.

“What about you? I mean, what kind of relationship do you have with it?” he asked.

Maul was quiet for a long moment again and Bail could read the confused mix of emotion, subtle as it was, on his face. “Complicated,” was what he finally answered, a little heavily. “It’s complicated.”

Bail nodded back, unsurprised by that response, and then grinned in a mix of reassurance and the beginning hints of enthusiasm. “Okay. So, how tired am I gonna be when we’re done with this lesson?”

It pulled Maul out of whatever half-troubled thoughts he was having, and his playful squint back made Bail grin wider. “A fairly earned tired, I would say.”

“That sounds good to me,” Bail said, and really, it did.

He still ended up feeling a little goofy and giddy, like a kid in some adventure holo about fictional Jedi, when he ignited the blade.

 

 

 

Maul hadn’t been kidding.

Bail’s arm ached and raising it to shoulder level after that was out of the question; he was right-handed and so Maul had taught him such, and he was glad for that because even after treatment, his left shoulder still twinged from the damage he’d done to it on Zigoola. He’d already had inkling that Maul was left-handed, but he apparently had no trouble whatsoever switching between them, and when Maul explained why – most of his opponents would _be_ right-handed – it made sense that he would be equally as good with both hands.

It wasn’t that any of the moves were violent, but the precision of them; Maul would stop Bail often to correct his form, though he was never impatient about it when he did, and then he would have Bail repeat the motion over and over again until he was doing it correctly every time.

Even in Shii-Cho – the form children started with, considered the easiest – there were so many moves to learn, too.

“The point of it,” Maul had said, after walking Bail through another block and parry sequence, “is for the motion to become instinctive. Everything starts here and builds on this, so learning this correctly is imperative.”

Despite his exacting standards, though, Maul was a good teacher; yet another thing he seemed to have in common with Breha. He was never derisive or disappointed, no matter how many times Bail flubbed a move; when Bail got it right, Maul was as quick to praise – usually just a simple, _“Good.”_ – as he was to offer correction.

Marks of a good teacher, too; by the time they got to the point where they could chain moves together into full sequences, Bail felt pretty great every time he got that one-word response, and even though he was sweating and sore by the time evening rolled around, he was almost sorry the lesson was drawing to a close.

All of the basics he had learned had become a full sequence; simple moves, but precise and graceful. They went through it side-by-side in unison and it was the closest Bail thought he’d ever come, to understanding what it felt like to be Force sensitive; to feel that connection to things, to feel his part in it all.

Half-joking, but also half-serious, he gave a bow when the lesson was over, and even though Maul snorted at him, he bowed back before taking his saber back, something gone soft in his eyes when he straightened back up again.

“The Council would collectively explode if they knew about this,” Obi-Wan commented, shoulder resting against an oak tree; Bail wasn’t sure when the Jedi had shown up to watch, but he was internally pleased that he didn’t feel any guilty jolt at being caught learning a lightsaber form.

Maul smirked, recoupling his staff. “One at a time, or all at once?” he asked, with a pleased tone of almost _unholy glee_ that had Bail giggling before he could stop himself.

Obi-Wan was failing terribly at hiding his own grin. “Staggered, I would think.”

“Good, I would hate to miss one for watching the others.” Maul stepped up and stole a quick kiss to Obi-Wan’s mouth, which was apparently a pleasant shock to the Jedi, given the way his whole face lit up after.

After Maul had headed back uphill, Bail fell into step with Obi-Wan, rolling his shoulder and looking forward to an ice pack and then a hot shower. Even still amused by the wordplay of moments ago, he felt a little ache in his chest when he said, “The galaxy lost out on a good primary school teacher when the Sith took him.” When Obi-Wan glanced over in some confusion and surprise, Bail elaborated, “He and Bre teach with the same style. Really patient, and explaining _why_ they’re teaching what they’re teaching, instead of just treating it as something mysterious that you have to learn because that’s what’s always done. They make you _want_ to learn, instead of making it like you have to.”

That observation apparently gave Obi-Wan a turn, though not a terrible one, because there was a sort of muted sorrow in his voice when he said, “I hadn’t known that.”

Bail reached over with his left hand and clapped the Jedi light on the back. “This is a pretty good time to learn it, though.”

(Later, when Obi-Wan called him from the _Negotiator_ and haltingly ran a concept by him, that turned out to be the truth.)


	15. Honor (22 BBY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (important) bit that would have fallen under 'And in between the moon and you'. Many thanks to shadowmaat for cheerleading and Laurel for helping me parse this out some.

The hike had not been too arduous, which Obi-Wan could only feel relief for; it meant that they were recovering well, and that with any luck, they would be capable of getting back into the thick of things when they left Alderaan. Not that he was looking forward to that part; in his mind, there was a constant war between the part of himself which wanted nothing more than to stay here, or somewhere like here, where the only things that they _had_ to worry about were eating properly and exercising as needed and most importantly, _resting,_ and the other part of him that felt it necessary to lend his skills and experience to the war effort and the Order which had raised him.

At least he had mostly managed to disarm his guilt about taking the time to recover. He had discovered that it was an ongoing process. That he could say the words to Bail (and more rarely Maul) and believe them wholeheartedly – that they needed to rest and recover – and then find himself an hour later agonizing about not being out there working himself.

It was a little easier at the moment though.

Bail had packed them a picnic and chased them off; it was likely one of the last truly warm and fine days they would get to enjoy together in peace anytime soon, and so neither of them had kicked about it. When Bail gave them a quick-drawn trail map up the mountain the summer house occupied the side of, they had taken it and then climbed, helping one another past obstacles.

The view, unsurprisingly, was very worth it.

Below, the river twinkled, a thin thread of reflected sunlight between the brilliant colors of autumn; far off in the distance, Obi-Wan could see an old bridge, built of stone and steel, left over from some time when land travel was more common than shuttle and likely maintained for its historical value. Up high, where they were, scrubby pine clung to gray rock, astringent and pleasant smelling at once and offering just enough shade that they wouldn’t bake under the sun. The world was made of faded gradients; color to dark green-blue. The horizon, pale to rich. The river of light, fading out of the darker distance, fading back into it. The haze over the other peaks.

It was beautiful; so much so that it nearly ached to look at it.

No less so was the zabrak beside him, dozing in the dappled light with his arms folded behind his head; even Maul had broken a bit of a sweat climbing – no mean feat – and when Obi-Wan had kissed him at the top of their hike, he could taste the salt of it on Maul’s top lip.

He had not entirely been prepared for how _aroused_  that left him, though.

He’d pushed the thought aside as well as he could, shielding it away carefully; that was nothing new. Some part of him had been admiring Maul’s good looks before he’d even fallen in love; of course, that admiration was confused and he never knew how to cope with it entirely, but once Obi-Wan had gotten past his anger and resentment, and once Maul had started coming back out of the apathy and resignation of his early captivity, the attraction Obi-Wan felt made itself known. There was a lot there to be attracted to, too; Obi-Wan could and had spent no small amount of time admiring the way different kinds of light reflected off of Maul’s red skin and black markings, or the way his eyes had darkened as he got older until they were the warmest kind of gold, or the shadows cast against them by his eyelashes, or the truly devastating way the markings on his face were laid out to enhance his every expression, be it a glower or a smile, adding to his ability to look severe, but also flattering his grin or his soft looks just the same.

It was hard to _not_  want him. Laying there, with his shirt off, the light that came through the bows of the evergreen they were sheltered under brushed gold against his skin like an artist’s fine work, and just like every other time, Obi-Wan felt that bittersweet stir of need. And just like every other time, he felt the painful shot of self-recrimination, for wanting someone he had hurt so badly and permanently.

If Maul had any sexual interest in him, it had never shown up; at least, not in any overt ways. On rare occasions, it did seem like Maul was flirting; moments where something both playful and pointed would be written in his expression, humming under the notes of a voice no less beautiful than the rest of him. But they were fleeting moments, there then gone, and the topic had never come up for discussion.

Obi-Wan knew part of that was that he was afraid of what the answer would be. Maul would be well within his rights to chastise him over it, but even more awful (and likely) was the possibility that he would encourage Obi-Wan to act on it under the notion that it didn’t make a difference to him either way. Or, no less awful, the chance that he would have some horror story from _before_ ; some terrible other way he had been violated out of any kind of pleasure or self-fulfillment in life.

Every single time Obi-Wan caught himself looking, taking in the line of collarbone or the tender spot under Maul’s jaw where his pulse beat, and wondered what it would be to taste those spots, he ran into the brace that hid the scars he’d left himself, and the cool, dark, blue-gray metal past them.

He looked away for a moment, taking in Alderaan’s incredible weathered mountain range, and when he looked back again, Maul was peering at him drowsily, eyes half-lidded. “Are you brooding again?” he asked, shifting to his side – his preferred way to sleep when not playing pillow or blanket – and crooking his arm back under his head.

The past two weeks – after the major Force-explosion that was an unshielded, un _contained_  Maul – had seen them mostly recovered in terms of mental shielding; Obi-Wan found he rather missed having a sense of where Maul was and what he was feeling, but he also thought it was a good sign that he no longer could so easily. Even then, it left them back to working out how to communicate with words, and many of those for the first time.

“A little.” Obi-Wan took a slow breath in and let it out, laying back down himself on the provided pad and blanket, mirroring Maul and just looking at him. Even though there was no arousal now, Obi-Wan still found the sight lovely, and so it took more courage than he felt he normally possessed to ask, “What does it feel like?”

“What does what feel like?” Maul asked back, brow furrowing, though clearly only confusion for the vagueness of the question and not irritation.

“Your cybernetics,” Obi-Wan clarified, barely managing to keep the wince off of his face, both for the fact that he had never asked this before, and for the fact that Maul’s drowsy, confused look instantly turned wary. “I don’t mean– I mean–” He paused and huffed, then shook his head against his own pillowing arm. “I’m not looking to beat myself up. I just– I want to know.”

Maul closed his eyes, mouth thinning to a straight edge, and it was everything Obi-Wan had not to reach out and smooth away those unhappy lines. But they had again successfully put off this discussion, citing health or a desire to just enjoy their respite, and the temptation to never have it was a real thing.

“Probably not as bad as you’re apt to think,” Maul finally said, though he still looked so very displeased that this topic had come up. “It’s like– when a limb falls asleep, but before the prickling starts. You can feel it there, you can move it, you can feel your feet against the ground as weight and resistance, but– but there’s no precision. Or– or heat, or cold, or softness or hardness. Just– numb. So, it’s like when your leg falls asleep from sitting wrong.” There was a long moment, and he worked his jaw, then finished, “Except, it never wakes up.”

There was an undertone of sorrow and longing in that last part, for as straight-forward as the explanation was, that made Obi-Wan’s throat hurt. The fact that Maul had clearly tried hard to keep even that from being too notable just added to it, too. “And in the Force?” he made himself ask, fighting to keep his own tone steady and largely succeeding despite how it felt to force words past the ache.

Maul just shook his head and didn’t open his eyes. Obi-Wan knew Anakin couldn’t feel his own right forearm; the fact that Maul couldn’t feel the Force through his cybernetics wasn’t a surprise, but it still was a painful thing to imagine.

“I never–” he started, almost making himself a liar, then tried again, “I wish that I could–”

Maul’s shoulders tensed and he went from that relaxed pose to something more compact, as if bracing for a fight; he drew his knees up some, as well, and Obi-Wan couldn’t blame him for the self-protective barrier he put into place, maybe without even realizing it. Still, his expression only remained severe, and severely unhappy. “I’m not sure what the point is of going over this. Or through it.”

“I hurt you.” The words were out before Obi-Wan could wonder if they were wise. And he realized that it was both an echo of the words Maul had said to him on Zigoola – acknowledgment of the pain caused – but also that it was the first time he’d ever directly said them _himself._ “I– I can’t– I can’t say I didn’t even _mean_  to hurt you. I don’t remember exactly what I was thinking when I swung, but– I remember after. And–”

Maul didn’t say anything; his jaw knotted and he quite resolutely kept his eyes closed, as if he could avoid this whole conversation by not seeing it.

“I haven’t– forgotten what you said, on Zigoola. When you told me of the good I’ve done.” Obi-Wan failed to keep the note of desperation out of his voice. “But darling, please, let me– let me at least–”

“Carve yourself up with this?” Maul asked back, finally opening his eyes, which sharply narrowed. His teeth flashed in a quick challenge. “To what _end,_ Obi-Wan? I’m certain you meant for me to die of it, not to have to live with it, regardless of what actually happened. I meant it, I don’t want to be the blade you use to torture yourself, what even is the _point?”_

Obi-Wan felt like he was foundering; he _didn’t_  want to turn this into some manner of selfish self-flagellation, because wallowing in his own guilt would certainly do Maul no good. His darling had made it clear that he didn’t want that retribution, and Obi-Wan didn’t want to make himself a liar. But he also wanted to-- to acknowledge it.

 _Sai tok_ was an illegal move; it was considered dishonorable to cut an enemy down that way. While it was nigh on guaranteed to be a fatal blow, it missed most vital organs and was low on the spine, and while the shock to the system _could_ render the person unconscious quickly, it was well known that it was possible for them to linger for awhile suffering, too.

Obi-Wan couldn't remember what he had been thinking. Or if he had even been thinking at all.

The Council had reviewed it and had deemed it unfortunate but, at the time, _justifiable_. They had deemed that Obi-Wan's intention had not been to cause suffering, but to end the battle quickly in order to reach his master; that the fall was such that Obi-Wan had no reason to believe that Maul would live through it. As Obi-Wan was staring at Maul, floating in half, floating in bacta, and Vokara Che was informing him that this deadly swordsman was three years younger than him and not even finished maturing entirely, the Council was telling him that he had no malice in his heart when he had swung the blade in a move he had been trained never to use, when the honorable cut to take Maul's head would have required only a change in angle.

Obi-Wan couldn't remember if there had been malice in him or not. Only that when he had dealt that blow, he had never known he would be the one to watch the consequences play out over the many years which followed.

He took a few breaths and tentatively reached out, brushing his fingers down the line of diamonds, from the one centered on Maul’s brow to the two at the end of the line on his nose, and clung to the fact that Maul didn’t pull his head back, though he kept looking past that hand to Obi-Wan’s face. “The point is… I’m sorry. That I hurt you. That I– that I used such a dishonorable cut to do it,” he said, swallowing down hard. “I can’t take it back, but if I could…” he said, before trailing off.

“Would you?” Maul asked back, mouth twisting like he’d bitten something bitter.

Obi-Wan’s breath left him in a horrified rush. “Force, _yes_.”

“I meant to kill you. I _did_ kill him,” Maul said, voice hard. “Just because you care for me now–”

Obi-Wan didn’t draw his hand back, even though that made his breath hitch, just walked his fingertips back up the bridge of Maul’s nose before turning to stroking at the top edge of his mask, following the jagged line of it. He trembled once at those words, but then he asked, “I know– I know it’s impossible, but if we were to relive it– what would _you_ have wanted me to do?”

Maul’s answer was instant: “Aim higher. Do it right.”

They were the words of an honorable swordsman, dealt a dishonorable blow.

There was some real temptation to ask Maul if all he had gained and loved since would not change that answer, but even before Obi-Wan finished having that thought, he realized how dreadfully unfair that question would be. That in order to have this – this moment, of them, peaceful together – he would have to ask if Maul thought being cut in two, captured, tortured and mind-raped to the point of suicidal desperation would have been enough to buy it.

And it wasn’t. It wasn’t, it wasn’t.

Obi-Wan managed a nod, and then shattered into tears.

He tried very hard to remind himself that he wasn’t a monster for accepting the slow but incredibly gentle arms that drew him in and held him through it.

 

 

 

Later, after things were as settled as they could be, Maul looked off into the burnished colors of early evening as they prepared to make their way back down again and said, "I wanted an honorable fight."

There was no pinning that tone down; it was blended with defensiveness and heartache and anger mostly burned to ash and only flickering now at the edges like coals, and it was suffused with an aching wistfulness that made Obi-Wan's throat threaten to close all over again.  He, himself, had paid only so much attention to honor in battle as a concept; Obi-Wan had defined his own life, at least pre-Theed, on practicality and necessity, and while he admired those who held themselves so rigidly to this ancient concept, he had never devoted himself to it beyond basic sentient decency.  He was -- then and now -- more apt to focus on the end results, and not always on how one got there, though he thought he was doing better as he learned to balance the ends with the means.

But to Maul, honor had been everything, and everything he had made for himself was tangled around it, even if it had been a concept he had only arrived at by himself and imperfectly.  And even now, his given word alone was a truth Obi-Wan could rest a universe on.

It was an undeniable part of what made him beautiful, and so it was also truth when Obi-Wan said, "You gave us one."


End file.
